Fear Itself
by Llewellwyn Mephistopheles III
Summary: Dean is bleeding out on the backseat of the Impala and Cas is desperate to save him.


For one of the first times in his extremely long life, Castiel knew true fear. It wrapped iron arms around his chest and seemed to steal the very breath from his lungs. It sent tremors through his hands, making them clumsy and stupid when he needed precision. But above all, it cleared his mind of any thought except one: save Dean.

_SaveDeansaveDeansaveDean_—it cycled through his mind endlessly, a mantra screamed with burning lungs.

Castiel's blue eyes darted toward the backseat, burning with feverish heat. There he saw the object of his affection, his lover, his hunter. Dean's body was limp, jostled only occasionally by Cas' frantic driving. Castiel refused to see the puddle of blood slowly seeping across the leather seats beneath Dean.

He yanked his eyes back to the road. He had to save Dean. Failure was not an option. Ruthlessly, he depressed the accelerator until it kissed the Impala's carpeting. The deep growl of the engine intensified and the car lurched forward as if it too understood the need for urgency.

Castiel chanced another peek into the backseat. Dean's face was contorted in pain. Cas didn't know how, but he knew he had to save Dean. A hospital was the answer, he knew, but where was one? The desolate countryside laughed at him even as desperation made him faint. Something cut through the fog. A voice—a familiar voice reached his ears and tugged him back from the cliff he had nearly tumbled from.

"Cas! Cas, come on, man. Listen to me! Turn. Left, _now_."

It was Sam speaking, giving him directions, but Castiel did not register this. The voice was pleading but interlaced with a tone that Castiel's inner angel could not ignore. It triggered his ingrained obedience and with steady hands he wrenched the wheel to the left. But Castiel's inner obedience, being angelic, did not know how to drive. It did not see the need to apply pressure to the brake pedal. It did not take issue with hurtling pell-mell toward a corner it could in no way make safely. Instead it powered on full tilt, driven blind by the fear buzzing inside Cas.

Needless to say, the Impala is not a lithe and nimble Lotus. Nor is it a modern sedan or coupe with moderate cornering skill. The Impala is a great slab of Americana, ton after ton of hard steel that responds favorably to inertia and feels a natural disinclination toward curves and corners.

Cas' angelic obedience realized its mistake too late. As Castiel returned to himself he realized his own folly. There was barely time for him to shut his eyes and listen to Sam's frantic cries with apologetic ears.

The Impala began to roll. Up and down became indistinguishable. Cas found himself thrown forward, then yanked back, then hit upside the head by something distinctly rearview mirror-like. Limbs flew in every direction and bodies tumbled and pitched as gravity and inertia sent them flying and plummeting all at once.

As soon as it started its death roll, the Impala lost its energy and ceased its tumble dry cycle. It settled on its roof among weeds and brush that poked their intrusive heads through the shattered windows. Agony radiated in waves from various parts of Castiel's abused vessel. He had vague notions of his injuries, but they were the last thing on his mind. He turned to peer into the backseat only to find himself looking up at the underside of the dashboard. Impatiently wriggling free, Cas barely caught himself as he landed ungracefully on the roof. He wormed his way out the driver's side window and quickly scanned the underbrush for a familiar tuft of dirty blond hair, a jean clad leg, or a jacketed shoulder.

A strangled cry escaped him as he spied Dean. The hunter was unconscious. His jacket, once olive green, was stained a brownish-red from the blood still leaking from his wounds. His face was cold and clammy to the touch. Castiel knew he was fighting a losing battle. He couldn't save Dean—the hunter was already going alarmingly still. His pulse was becoming harder and harder for the angel to locate.

Faced with the death of the one human Castiel deeply cared about, the angel experienced an overwhelming feeling of uselessness. He had failed to help Dean while they were on the hunt. Now that Dean was injured and bleeding out before his very eyes, Castiel could still do nothing. If only he could take the pain and hurt away from Dean, he would.

But he couldn't. He was an angel, but a powerless one. He could do nothing but sit dumbly, feeling the heat slowly leave Dean's body and watching the light go out in his glassy eyes. It was agonizing, to be so useless. He felt at once the deepest despair and the most potent self loathing. He couldn't wind back time, he couldn't save Dean and he couldn't help the single tear that slid down his cheek.

(***)

Dean awoke, the heaviness of the dream lingering on his chest like a weight. He was used to nightmares—those he could almost handle. But seeing Cas like that, silently weeping over his nearly dead body, was something he would gladly give his right arm to never see again. He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face. Beside him, Sam struggled into wakefulness. The younger Winchester sat up, a look of distress plastered across his face which Dean immediately noticed.

"Sam?"

"God… I… I just had the _worst_ dream."

"Yeah? Clowns or midgets?" Dean tried for a smirk but felt his attempt fall woefully short.

"I dreamed that… you were dying. Cas was speeding, trying to find a hospital or something. He couldn't use his mojo for some reason. The Impala flipped and I think I flew out a window. And Cas was kneeling over you… and you… died."

Dean's usual lively remarks were stopped in their tracks. He stared at Sam with hollow eyes, disbelieving the words that were falling from his mouth. "You're kidding… right?" he asked helplessly.

Sam glared. "Why would I joke about this, Dean?"

"I had the exact same dream."

"What?"

Dean swallowed. "You heard me. Cas rolled the Impala and… my side was on fire. And then Cas was hunched over me."

"But how is that possible?"

"I got nothing. All I know is I need a drink." Dean staggered over toward the fridge, extracting a beer and pressing its chilled exterior to his head. He heaved a sigh. Across the room, Sam coughed awkwardly. "What?" Dean turned and caught sight of Cas. The angel stood stock still in the center of the room, a look of outright disbelief written across his face.

"Cas?" Dean asked. "You okay?"

The angel took an unsteady breath and was suddenly in front of Dean, pulling him forward and wrapping him up in a bone-crushing hug. Dean couldn't help himself. He grabbed a handful of tan trench coat and hugged his angel tight. Winchester denial and posturing be damned—that dream had been fucking awful. Dean never wanted to feel like that again. In that moment, as Cas had stood across the room looking so lost and alone, something had changed in Dean. In a rush he'd suddenly realized how much Cas meant to him, how much he takes the angel for granted. He packed his appreciation, his thanks and his newfound love into the hug and prayed that Cas got the message.

The two pulled back and were frozen for a moment, staring into one another's eyes. Dean blinked and leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Cas' lips.

(***)

Across the room, Sam hid his smile. He felt slightly bad about subjecting Dean and Cas to such emotional torture, but as Gabe had said, the two would never get together without some near death experience forcing them to realize their mutual feelings.

Now, as they stood locked in an embrace, Sam quietly slipped out the door. Outside, he shared an eye roll with Gabe and left Dean and Cas to their newfound romance. Honestly, their denial and unresolved sexual tension was just getting old.


End file.
